


Attempts At Healing

by alcyme



Series: Of Time, Power, and Consequences [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is a pine tree, Crowley-centric (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt No Comfort, I love Aziraphale but he does hurt Crowley, I love them but they need to suffer, M/M, Meddling with time, POV Second Person, Pining, Unrequited Love, this fandom needs more sad fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-31 15:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21147776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcyme/pseuds/alcyme
Summary: Imagination can only get you so far. And then there are things not powerful enough to make it to reality. Like feelings of love.Time mends all wounds and that includes a broken heart. After all, what is healing than just reversing time. It would be a shame if The First Healer can’t even heal himself.





	Attempts At Healing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hit Rewind: A Four-Letter Word And Its Variants Through The Ages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20624348) by [siephilde42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siephilde42/pseuds/siephilde42). 

> My first fic in more than 10 years so I am way more than rusty at writing. This is a two-month old plot bunny idea that has been festering over at my twitter (https://twitter.com/burnthetoaster/status/1170604746735906817?s=20). This fic idea has been written by the lovely @siephilde42 over at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20624348/chapters/48972866 so if you want something that's happy, go over there. If you're super okay with angst and really not having a happy ending for the husbands, go ahead and read this one.
> 
> Super thank you for @kyoy for beta-ing this and for being my soundboard for my ideas. I am sorry not sorry for hurting you.

**0\. At The Beginning **

It started like this:

A loud crash exploded in the vast emptiness of space.

She felt it first, the pain, the burning sensation of something gone wrong. Then she heard it, a cry of pain.

She appeared before the source. In front of Her were three of her darling little fledglings in one corner of the current Work In Progress universe, looking guiltily at Her.

“We’re sorry, Mother. We know we’re not supposed to be here, but Raphael got curious,” said Michael. As the elder one, he felt particularly responsible for not stopping Lucifer when he encouraged Raphael to sneak in. The one called Raphael floated towards her looking worriedly.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I was admiring how pretty they were, but I accidentally hit one, and it fell.” He offered his hands to Her. She looked at what he was holding to assess the damage, and there it was, one of the little spheres from the ongoing solar system laid broken in seven chunks.

She eyed the anxiety on the other two’s faces and looked back at Raphael. She smiled at him and reassured, “This can still be fixed, little one. Would you like me to show you?” Raphael’s red curls bobbed along as he nodded. “And for the three of you, would you want to learn as well?” The three archangels floated towards them.

She put Her attention back on Raphael. “Remember this because this is also how you are going to fix damages as well.” Then She showed him how to identify the cracks, the unevenness of matter, where atoms split, and how to put them together.

Little Raphael stuck his tongue out while he concentrated on fixing the little planet-to-be. The seven chunks hardened into land, and between them, he added water so it could adjust if it wanted to grow. He also added another layer on top as a protective surface to prevent it from getting destroyed again when they play in Mother’s workshop. He found brown boring, so he also added some greens, whites, and blues all over. After doing everything he could, he offered it to Her with a grin.

She took it from his hands and confirmed it was stable before placing it back in its place, the third from its star. “You might have overdone it a little, but that was good work!” She ruffled his hair. 

“Since I already taught all of you the basics of how to mend planets, you might as well start helping me with this.” She stretched her arms to the expanse of the universe. The four cheered (and whooped and wahooed). “I’ll meet all four of you at the blank corner of my workspace. I trust you know where it is.”

And with a chorus of “Yes Mother!” the four flew away.

She stayed for a moment, assessing the newly healed planet and observing as the first tendrils of plant life started.  _ This planet will do for the next steps of my plan. It just got jumpstarted 1 Million Years ahead. _

  
  


**1\. (Not A Fall) Sauntering Downwards**

You are named as The First Healer. You’ve always had a knack for knowing how things, objects, and beings are composed. Your Mother taught you those things when you were young.

But it is now your Mother who is hurting the people you care for.

You know that it was Lucifer who first started the rebellion, which then became a full-blown war. You expect that you would need to mend wounds, heal hurts. What you did not expect was that it would just be for those on Her side.

“But they’re still angels! Lucifer is still our brother!” you tried to reason out with Uriel as she tries to stop you from leaving the confines of the healers’ area.

Uriel pulls you closer to her. “Don’t do it, Raphael. He’s not our brother anymore.” You stop in your tracks and face her. “Wha-What do you mean?”

“Mother. She-” Uriel looks away. “Lucifer and his lackeys are now henceforth, banished from Heaven.”

Shock fills your core. Banished? And then, anger. “But what about the wounds they have?! Even if they are banished, they should have at least been treated properly!”

The disgusted look on Uriel’s face when you suggest treating them makes you want to slap her. “Leave them. They should have known the consequences of going against Mother.”

You stand up straighter at your younger sister’s declaration. “I am a healer! I will abide by what my creator has told me to do. I will heal.”

So you fly downwards to where you feel the faint traces of your older brother. You land in front of him. He looks at you and scoffs, “Came to gloat?” and pauses to look at you and turns his head in shame. “No. Knowing you, you’re about to do something stupid again.”

You kneel next to him, checking the extent of the damage, and you start healing the big gash on his chest that has begun to discolor. “Who did this one?”

“Michael.”

You stop and sigh, but continue to work your way from the majority of the significant damage on his body. Now, there are only the wings to worry about. Most of his feathers are gone, the expanse of his skin showing instead. And they’re not even whole, some parts are already tattered and gaping with holes. “How about this one?”

“That. Is when I went into a free fall. I got burnt while I entered the atmosphere, but most came from hitting the brimstone pools.”

And try as you can, the wings stay as they are. Nothing works, no matter how many times you try. Every bit of newly healed skin promptly burns again.

You figure that the burning is the root of the problem, and you try to heal Lucifer by pulling out the burning sensation from within him.

“Raphael? Raphael! What are you doing?!” Lucifer cries out in alarm.

“Wait just a bit. I can still fix this.”

But the fire is too much. You can feel it getting out of your control, trying to consume you as well. Fire starts licking the tips of your wings and your hair. You let go in surprise and pain, but it was too late. It had latched onto you, and it now wants to consume you.

You cry in anguish, and you pull all the healing power you have left to stop the fire. You try to heal the burns that you have attained. But it is too late, you have used the last of your power in trying to pull out the infernal fire and stop time. The only thing that you can do is to...

You try to move time forward. Make it a flash fire rather than a slow descending consumption of you.

You use up your remaining power to start time again, and you reappear before Lucifer, wings charred as you collapse by his feet.

When you wake up, it is not on a bed of clouds but the cold hard ground with the stench of brimstone in the air. You find out what woke you up, and it’s the feeling of being prodded by a stick and someone shouting at you to “Wake up! Lots of work to do. You’re new, so you get the brunt of the work.”

Your older brother is nowhere in sight. You have a bad feeling that you won’t see each other in a long while.

  
  


** 2\. Friendship **

You have befriended this man, this prophet, this Son of God made human. (In all actuality, you’re all Children of God. One might also assume that you’re the older wayward brother that no one talks about). 

This Yeshua does not brush you away even though he knows you are Fallen. He has welcomed you into his fold and considers you part of his flock. His men do not trust you though – your corporation is female, you are too outspoken, and you question him a lot of times. Yet you find that he has more patience for you than your Parent ever did.

Hell has given you a wide berth when it comes to interacting with the Christ. The other demons that they have sent to him have been either destroyed or sent back. You’re the only one that has survived being in close proximity to him. Satan has told you to keep a close eye on this one, to continue to tempt him, and to thwart the Plans of the Almighty.

It doesn’t make you stop caring for him, like an ever doting older sister. You report this as “tempting” since this is also what Yeshua reports.

So every strike of the whip that hits his mortal flesh makes you flinch. You know that he will rise. It is written in The Great Plan. But it does not stop the pain from hurting. Every split of skin, every drop of blood, every bead of sweat, every mottle of bruise, makes you want to cry out in anguish.

They make him carry his cross. You miracle a cloth so that you can reach out to wipe his face and try to take away a bit of his pain, even as his blood and sweat burn your hands. Centurions posted as guards, shove you aside and make you fall. You stay on the ground for a while, trying to conceal your emotions.

You continue your walk to Golgotha, where you find Aziraphale. Anger laces your question, “Come to smirk at the poor bugger?”

“I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley,” Aziraphale replies. It eases you a bit to know that he is not part of the Heavenly Hosts trying to throw a party right now, celebrating the poor man’s death. So you decide to be friendly to the angel. “I’ve changed it.”

“Changed what?”

“My name. Crawley just wasn’t doing it for me. A bit too squirming at your feet-ish.” 

In fact, the name change was suggested by Yeshua himself. He didn’t want to call you that the entire time you were staying with them. ‘Too squirmy,’ he said, ‘and people won’t take you seriously. How about...’ and you traded suggestions and settled on Crowley, ‘close enough, but with a significant change in style.’

“Did you... ever meet him?”

“I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.” You do not add that he is also your friend. That you were the first to inform him of Judas’ act of betrayal.

Yeshua is hauled up to the cross and crucified. The last straw is hearing him cry out, “Father, why have you forsaken me?”

You force the Earth to stop. And you march your way over to him at the foot of his cross.

** _“Father,”_ ** you spit out, “has always forsaken us!”

Yeshua does not look at you and does not seem surprised at what you have done. That time has stopped for the two of you.

“Just tell me what to do,” you beg him. “Let me  _ help _ you. Please. I can still help you.”

At this, he raises his head, looks at you, and weakly groans out, “You cannot tempt me anymore, demon. It is done.”

But you don’t stop. “But I’m a healer. I was made to heal. Please. Why was I made this way if I can’t heal? At least this once.  _ Let me help you _ .”

Even with his face covered in blood, you know his expression is that of disappointment. “You cannot help me, Crowley. You know that this is part of The Plan.”

You groan, “Please don’t say it. Please. Don’t.”

He smiles at you through bloodied teeth. “It is ineffable.”

As he says those words, Time starts again. After all, Yeshua has a point. You are all pieces in this Ineffable Game. 

But you still stay. You stay until Yeshua breathes his last. You stay, and you do not notice when Aziraphale leaves. You stay until daylight breaks into night.

  
  


**3\. The First Time (1800)**

The Archangels leave the bookshop. Finally.

You watch the fruition of your earlier plans succeed. Aziraphale gets to keep his prized books and the bookshop he worked so hard for. He gets to stay on Earth, eating his heart out with delicacies from all around the world.

You confidently saunter and open the bookshop doors, chocolates, and flowers on hand. You planned to make this into a memorable occasion, for both him and you. 

You got his favorite chocolates from that Swiss place in Ticino. You personally picked out the flowers based on their meanings. They symbolize your heart. You are giving your heart to him. A mix of pink camellias, chamomile, blue hyacinths, red tulips, and ivys. 

The bookshop is homey, or as homey as Aziraphale is. As you go around, you notice that the books don’t have any specific sectioning, unlike other bookshops, except for the scrolls section. You take in the window on the roof that gives visibility to the darkening sky and the stars that are starting to show at this time.

You find Aziraphale in the middle of the shop, where the archangels had just left.

“Congratulations on getting to stay. And the shop, of course.”

Aziraphale looks questioningly at you. “Was that your doing Crowley?”

“And those suckers got played.” You have every right to look as smug as you feel. You first extend the chocolates to the newly minted proprietor. “Got you a little something to celebrate.”

The joy in Aziraphale’s face lights up the dimming world outside. “Chocolates!” He looks at the box. “And my favorites from Switzerland too!” The amount of time he takes to peel the wrapping and take off the lid is as fast as simply miracling them away. He picks one, pops it in his mouth, and gives a moan and a little wiggle. “You really do spoil me, dear.”

He then notices the flowers that are still in your hands and looks inquisitively at you. "Ooh. You got a date tonight, Crowley? I shan't be taking any more of your time. I appreciate the chocolates very much."

You feel yourself fluster and grow hot under the collar as you try to stammer back, "Ngk. Yeah. Um. Actually. Uh. These. Hng. Theseareforyou." And you thrust the bouquet towards Aziraphale.

His face falls.

And your heart falls along with it, along with that sinking feeling in your gut.

“Oh, dear. I’m afraid that there’s a misunderstanding.” He takes a deep breath. “Crowley, you’re a demon. And I’m-I’m an angel.”

“I was an angel once too,” you whisper. You’re not a being that needs to breathe, but you feel what seems to be a panic attack forming in your lungs, squeezing out the very essence of your soul.

“Well, were. You’ve fallen.” Aziraphale straightens up and looks more resolute than ever since you enter the bookshop. “This was not part of The Arrangement, Crowley. We stay out of each other’s way. Lend a hand when needed. Our ‘ _ relationship’ _ can’t go any further than that. Gabriel and Sandalphon just left, and Heaven might still be watching.  Do you know what trouble I'd get into if they knew I'd been fraternising? This.” He gestures to you and him. “There is no ‘us.’ It's completely out of the question.  It’s over. Thank you for the chocolates.” 

There is a slight hesitation when he gives back the sweets, but he still thrusts them to you with a short “Goodnight, Crowley.”

You don’t take them. You just let them fall. Fall like the tears in your eyes. Fall like your heart. Fall like how the Earth initially fell when it first began.

The chocolates don’t land on the ground.

They hang, suspended in midair. You don’t realize that you have unconsciously stopped time. Or was it you? The flowers in your hand, though uprooted, lean towards you, as if they’re trying to touch you, to comfort you, to try to fix you as you had fixed the Earth so many millennia ago.

The Earth senses your despair and tries to help you right it. It reaches out to you and to your power and  _ shifts itself. _

There is a lurch in the ground as you can feel the Earth try so hard to reverse the normal flow of time, tries so hard to go against what has been set by God. And you see the results for yourself, like a tape being rewound, the tears from your eyes travel back upwards but gather in front of your face, the chocolate box returns to Aziraphale’s hands, Aziraphale moves backwards until he sits back down. Time stops when he eats a piece of chocolate.

You feel the Earth heave from the pressure it has exerted, and you give it a little nudge of thanks. You steel your heart, you banish the tears, and you fix the expression on your face.

Time starts again.

“You really do spoil me, dear.”

He then notices the flowers that are still in your hands and looks inquisitively at you. "Ooh. You got a date tonight, Crowley? I shan't be taking any more of your time. I appreciate the chocolates very much."

You look back at the flowers in your hands. “Nah. Someone just gave them to me. I plan to burn them back at my place so that I can intimidate the rest of my plants to behave. Ta, then. Have fun selling books.”

You leave the bookshop and Aziraphale alone and immediately proceed to your flat.

The ordeal drains all your senses dry. You don’t have the energy in you to even feel the despair you felt during that moment. You just feel weighted, like you’re falling for a second time. There is no pain, just a bone-chilling sense of nothingness. You feel like nothing, so you become nothing.

You drift off to glorious sleep.

And in 1850, you are forcibly awakened by a loud banging on the door.

Head Office is requesting your presence as to why there has been no demonic activity on your end for 50 years. You say that you’re trying to practice the sin of sloth. But Lord Beelzebub is not amused. To avoid torture, you negotiate the terms of your punishment. You explain that the punishment must fit the crime - you’ll do their required dirty work and put in the extra effort. 

You are hereby put on a probationary period and get babysat by Hastur for a decade. You are both put in charge of planting the seeds of revolution and civil unrest in China and America. Your probationary status is lifted, and you are free to wander again.

But not without the explicit warning from Beelzebub about your performance: “You were a healer before. But you’re a demon now, use that knowledge to hurt.”

When have you ever heeded warnings? And when have you given up so easily? Maybe the 50-year sleep was enough to heal your broken heart. Maybe, you hope, maybe Aziraphale has missed you.

You send the angel an invite to meet at St. James’s Park. Then you get the latest food rage - afternoon tea. You bring another bouquet, just camelias this time, but of white, pinks, and reds. This time, you also bring a card that you had bought in America. Cards are another thing of this age that you think might pique Aziraphale’s interest. It’s a simple drawing of a cupid holding a heart with the greeting of “To My Valentine.” Aziraphale arrives and looks at your get-up questioningly while feeding the ducks. You offer the bouquet and the card to him.

The number of times you have seen an enraged Aziraphale can be counted on one hand, and it is usually not directed at you. You then remember that this angel, even though demoted to Principality, is still a soldier, a commander of a platoon of the Heavenly Hosts. 

“Is this a joke to you? All these... these things!” Aziraphale shoves the bouquet back to you. “Our-our Head Offices could find out! We shouldn’t even be meeting like this!”

He takes a deep breath and continues, “No. I refuse to be a part of this. I break off our Arrangement, and I hope to never see you again.”

Aziraphale starts to walk away. He doesn’t even look back at you, and every step he takes away from you makes the chasm in your heart grow.

You beg for it to stop again. And the Earth complies. It stops everything for you, except for the further damage to your heart. You crumple to the ground and will the world to reverse on its axis again. “One more time, friend. Please. Just once again, one more.” 

It takes pity on you and rewinds enough time that Aziraphale hasn’t arrived at the park, enough time to throw the flowers in the trash, and wipe the card clean. In the space of the original greeting, you write down an answer to his worries. You thank the Earth, pick yourself up, and miracle away any wrinkles that you might have incurred during your breakdown. Just in time for Aziraphale to arrive.

It still does not go well. But it is a welcome change to what had just happened.

Even if the way the conversation mirrors what Aziraphale had told you back in the 1800s disquiets you to your core.

When he tells you that you have nothing in common because you are Fallen, you veer off-topic. No need to follow that line of thought. That has been done before. 

You then give him the edited note. Holy Water. For just in case Hell decides to give him a visit instead. You feel touched that he is worried that you'll use it on yourself, but then he speaks out,  “Do you know what trouble I'd get into if they knew I'd been fraternising? It's completely out of the question.”

You can't help but hiss out, “Fraternising?”

This. 

This was what happened in 1800, and you refuse to have your heart broken twice in a row. This is not the first time he has voiced out this concern to you. So you can't help but feel defensive. "I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel." 

"Of course you do." 

That reply makes you angrier, and you retort, “I don't need you.”

When he says, "The feeling is mutual. Obviously," and walks away, you let him. You're too angry now to feel the pain in your heart. 

When you say, "Obviously," you mean, “Obviously not. If the feeling is mutual, we would never have had this conversation at all."

You decide to sleep for another 50 years afterwards.

And you wonder if Aziraphale had noticed that you'd been gone this entire time.

(Then you discover that he learned to dance while you slept. Hung out with humans, got a membership card to an exclusive gentlemen’s club, made another best friend named Oscar.

You want to rewind time to be able to see him go through this stage of his life, to watch him learn to dance, laugh, and live.

But you can't. He does not want you to.)

So you sleep. And you get woken up again, first by a commendation on the American Civil War, then by another probationary sentence for another 50-year slack off.

It is the 1920s, and you promise that you’ll give humanity the war of their lives. You promise to give humans Hell on Earth.

The rage in your blood does not last for very long. Not when you receive news of an idiotic bookshop owner who was conned to provide books of prophecies to the Nazis.

And you know that there is only one bookshop that carries all but one book of prophecies. And you are masochistic enough to save the being who rejected you in a place that would kill lesser demons. You walk on consecrated ground, burning your feet, but the pain there is nothing compared to the thought of losing him.

The way he looks at you after the ordeal is indescribable. It feels like a hallucinogenic compound travelling through your veins. You want him to look at you that way every day, every second, every single moment. 

You have dreams about that look – dreams and daydreams of the demon variety of the sin of lust. But once you start fantasizing about him, his face transforms into his disappointed look when he told you he didn’t love you. You do not dare cry out his name when you come, not even in your sleep, or when you jolt awake once it turns into a nightmare. You are too scared that if you call out his name loud enough, he’ll hear, and he’ll suddenly appear before you and hate you even more.

But sometimes you still try to confess your feelings towards him. You tried in the 1970s when it felt like your relationship was improving, but you still got rejected. You tried on the day you delivered the Antichrist (after all, the End of the World was coming, maybe it would trigger a sense of urgency with his feelings). That attempt was laughable, but you made him agree to take care of the boy with you so you still count it as a win. 

And you try again on the day before Armageddon. 

  
  


**4\. Not The Last Time **

You request a meeting by the bandstand in St. James Park. You know that this might be the only other chance that you have to know how he feels about you. After all, if not now, it would be tomorrow, and the end of the world is tomorrow. Lots of work to do tomorrow, and you want to reserve some of your energy in the event that something goes awfully wrong.

You bring nothing with you this time. You’re too used to his rejections that you just rip the bandaid off and just restart everything else. You start off the conversation with something light that will lead up to your confession.

“How long have we been friends? Six thousand years?” Six thousand years of friendship, you think. And it’s been more than two hundred years since you first declared your feelings to him, since he rejected you. You have tried to be closer to him those past two centuries, hoping that maybe, just maybe, his feelings will grow warmer for you. Warm enough for him to be more open towards you.

His feelings have not changed one bit.

Aziraphale tells you, “Friends, we’re not friends. We’re an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common.”

Then comes the kicker, “I don’t even like you.”

You breathe in. You haven’t even told him your feelings yet. Just a statement regarding your friendship, and this is how he reacts. And everything in your body is screaming at you,  _ wrongwrongwrong. _

You stop everything.

You compose yourself and try to start again, but your skin is too tight, and you’re still too strung up with the earlier conversation. You decide to take another turn and talk about work.

“Any news?”

“Um. What kind of news would that be?”

And you find yourself quite annoyed at this attempt of Aziraphale at being innocent, so you find yourself barking out, “Well? Do you have the missing Antichrist’s name, address, and shoe size yet?”

The look he gives you is the face when he tries his hardest to lie. But you don’t know that. “Shoe size? Why would I have his shoe size?” And you try your best to make light of the conversation and to joke your way out of it, but his next response makes something in you snap.

“It’s the Great Plan, Crowley.”

The Great Fucking Plan. The Great Fucking Plan that has been there ever since every single one of you had been created. The Great Fucking Plan that will end the world. The Great Fucking Plan that made you fall. The Great Fucking Plan that broke your family apart. The Great Fucking Plan that makes Aziraphale drift further and further away from you. And it all comes tumbling down with all the stress that the End of the World can only provide. “For the record, great pustulent mangled bollocks to the Great Blasted Plan!”

Aziraphale looks scandalized. “May you be forgiven!”

That hurts a lot. There are a lot of things that you have done that you may ask forgiveness for, but never hating the plan. The good bloody Lord knows of your hatred for the blasted plan. “I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. That’s part of a demon’s job description.” 

There are a lot of things that you are not sorry for. You’re not sorry for giving Eve knowledge. You’re not sorry for healing Lucifer. You’re not sorry for trying to talk Jesus out of basically what is considered a suicide mission.

“ _ Unforgivable. That’s what I am. _ ” You’re not sorry for loving Aziraphale.

“You were an angel once.”

You are taken aback. You remember saying those words to him the first time you confessed in the bookshop, and you’re scared. Scared that he might be remembering. So you try and stir the conversation back to the plan. Your plan. The plan that can save the world. You suggest that he kill the boy. After all, he should know that you’re not fond of killing, especially children. You try to convince him that since the boy is evil incarnate, that his side should have no problem. But neither of you want to stain your hands, so you are at a standstill. And you, you do what you do best in situations like this.

You turn and try to get yourself out of the situation. “Enough. I’m leaving.”

You know it’s cowardly, but it’s also the reason why you also abuse the power that you have.

But as you try to walk away, Aziraphale surprisingly still calls out to you. “You can’t leave, Crowley. There isn’t anywhere to go.”

And this makes you stop and look at him. Very rarely does Aziraphale call out to you. And it makes you smile a little, seeing that he still cares. So you try again. He called out to you. Maybe. Just maybe, this time, when you reach out to him, he’ll take your hand.

“Big universe. Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we could go off together.” If you weren’t wearing your sunglasses, he would be able to see your eyes, hoping, longing, and begging for him to take your hand. But he doesn’t. And the next best thing you can do is try to convey it through your words. The only thing left is if you go down on your knees to beg.

His next words are full of nerves. “‘Go off together?’ Listen to yourself.”

You take the sign of his nerves as an opening, that maybe with a little bit more, you can convince him to come with you. So you try again and repeat the same conversation from earlier, hoping that it can lead you two closer. “How long have we been friends? Six thousand years?”

“Friends, we’re not friends. We’re an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like you.”

Nothing has changed.

You stop.

Aziraphale stops.

Everything stops.

You check in your heart of hearts, soul of souls, if the mantle of your earth has not fully broken to expose your melting core, if your heart is still beating, if it can withstand another blow.

It does. Your world is still whole. And you go on. Every single twang of heartache you feel, you measure yourself if it is worth it to continue when every phrase he utters shakes the very ground you stand on. 

The Earth is still whole even if it is already at the end of it.

You decide not to erase this moment, no matter how hurtful those words are. After all, this isn't the first, second, or third time he has said those words.

So everything starts again, and you hiss back, “You do.” Because you will it to be true. This hope is the only thing that keeps you together from falling apart.

“Even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I wouldn't tell you. We are on opposite sides.”

Every response from Aziraphale threatens you and your reality, but you still try to convince him. Every reaction from Aziraphale quenches the burning hope that he will ever feel the same about you. “We're on our side.”

“There isn't an ‘our side,’ Crowley. Not anymore. It's over.”

Just like that, six thousand years of wanting, hoping, loving, living gone. It’s just as he said: It’s over.

You breathe out.

“Right. Well, then. Have a nice doomsday.”

And you walk away. You don’t even bother to rewind time to save yourself the heartache and pain. You know that it is now an exercise in futility.

Aziraphale will never love you.

Aziraphale never even thought of you as a friend.

  
  


**5\. The Day Your World Ends**

It is the day.

Today is the End of the World.

Hell has found out about your screw up, and you are running out of cards to play. 

The only thing left for you is to run away as far as you can, for as long as you can. But you cannot leave him, the only one that matters. You cannot leave him to his fate as much as you cannot bear to be without him.

Dagon drones on the Bentley’s radio, but you’re more focused on finding Aziraphale to beg one more time for him to come with you. Despite the End of the World coming, you don’t know that it’s the last chance you’ll get.

As soon as you spot him, you haphazardly park the Bentley on the curb and step out.

“Angel! I’m sorry. Apologize. Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it.” You beg. “Work with me. I’m apologizing here.” Not really apologizing, more of begging. “Yes? Good. Get in the car.”

Shock and confusion etch in Aziraphale’s face. “What? No!”

You continue your groveling. “The Forces of Hell have figured out that it was my fault.” You flail your hands upward towards the vastness of space. “We can run away together. Alpha Centauri. Lots of spare planets up there. Nobody will notice us.”

Aziraphale looks at you, scandalized, and shakes his head. “Crowley, you’re being ridiculous. I-I’m quite sure that if I can ju-just reach the right people, I can get this all sorted out.”

It’s your turn to be scandalized. “There aren’t any right people! There’s just God. Moving in mysterious ways and  _ not talking to any of us. _ ”

“Well, yes. That’s why I’m going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it.”

“That won’t happen!” Your angel. Your naive, loving, ever-optimistic angel. ‘So clever. How can somebody so clever be so stupid?’ You’re so shocked that you don’t register that you voice your thoughts in front of Aziraphale.

And there it is.

That face.

That face that tells you that he’s about to cry, that you broke his heart. That disappointed look on his face that haunts you in your sleep. That look he gets whenever you tell him that you love him and he has to tell you that he doesn’t.

He softly tells you still, “I forgive you.”

You think back to all the times when you had to tell him that you are unforgivable. That you’re evil. That you’re a demon. That he’ll never love you because of the stark differences between you two. That he should never forgive you for breaking his heart. 

You’re so distraught with emotion that you jump back to your car, and you scream at him, “I’m going home, angel! I’m getting my stuff, and I’m leaving! And when I’m off in the stars, I-I won’t even think about you!” You leave him at the curb and drive to your flat.

So distraught about the fact that he will never pick you, that you don’t even bother to rewind time.

But you forgive him every time he breaks your heart because, you reason, you can undo it. Time mends all wounds, and that includes a broken heart. After all, what is healing than just reversing time? It would be a shame if The First Healer can’t even heal himself.

You start preparing yourself for the inevitable visit from Hell.

But then...

But then–

Then the bookshop catches fire.

And no matter what you do, trying to get there earlier, trying to outmaneuver Hastur and Ligur, trying to warn Aziraphale, the outcome is still the same. The bookshop is gone. Aziraphale is gone.

And the last thing you told him was that you’d be leaving without him.

He forgave you, but you can’t forgive yourself.


End file.
